


The Widening Gyre

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Drunk on the Moon [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 04:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12247236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: they smoke.





	The Widening Gyre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> finally thursday's fic lol. work exploded :) I meant this one to come back to the Tom Waits thing but Yeats happened, sorry.
> 
> Warning: drug use (they smoke DOPE is better summary)

“Baby my arms hurt and I am going to implode,” Athos says, wandering into the livingroom where Porthos is sat (expected) with Aramis (unexpected).

“Your laptop bugging again?” Porthos asks, tipping his head back in a long, slow, lazy gesture, grinning up at Athos, one side of his mouth moving faster than the other, a blunt held between his teeth in a manner more aesthetically cool than any sort of use or comfort.

“Yes,” Athos says, going over to stand behind the sofa and hold Porthos’s face in his hand, taking the blunt.

He examines it, the hard tingling and twitching that starts at his elbows and itches and prickles through him ebbing away a bit. He keeps hold of Porthos’s chin gently and takes a pull of smoke, bending to press his mouth to Porthos’s, smoke between them. Porthos always likes that and now is no exception; when Athos straightens Porthos has his eyes shut and a blissful expression, breath held. Athos gives his cheek a pat and Porthos snorts smoke out of his nose finding it inexplicably funny. Aramis giggles, whispering about dragons and leaning over to nuzzle his head against Porthos’s cheek, the one Athos just patted. Porthos nuzzles back and accidentally knocks their heads together. Athos goes to plop down in the armchair taking the blunt with him; it is for their own good that he smokes the rest of this.

Porthos gets up and wanders about gradually removing his clothing, touching things around the room and stopping to steal Athos’s smoke from his lips with messy, melting kisses. He ends up by the record player fumbling with the vinyl probably about to scratch something. Athos goes to confiscate the records in his hands; they might be Porthos’s and it might be Porthos messing with them but that doesn’t stop it being Athos’s fault when they end up scratched. Aramis comes over too and gets hold of Athos’s hips, moving him forcefully aside, elbows Porthos out of the way too, and bends forwards to examine the record player his hands shoved in his trouser pockets, legs wide apart, swaying and humming to himself. Porthos rests a hand on Aramis’s bum and seems happily distracted so Athos fetches out the record Porthos has his other hand on and reaches over Aramis’s messy hair to put it on the turn-table. Aramis straightens and bounces excitedly helping out by placing the needle ever so carefully in completely the wrong place. Athos corrects it and they all stand back, watching.

“You haven’t put it on,” d’Artagnan says from the doorway, voice low and amused.

“Insouciant,” Aramis says, savouring the susurrating sounds of the sibilance, sauntering toward d’Artagnan.

“What rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” Porthos mutters, eyes on Aramis. “moving its slow thighs. Mm.”

“Savouring the susurrating sounds of sibilance,” Athos says. “Say that five times fast.”

“Well Mr Poet and Mr Poet,” d’Artagnan says, Aramis now firmly draped about him. “The falcon will not hear the falconer and neither will we hear music; if music be the food of love, turn the fucking record player on Athos.”

“It’s not food,” Athos grumbles, but crawls under the table to plug it in and turn it on. There’s a too-loud burst of sound so Athos turns it off again and crawls out to the speakers to turn them down then crawls back and turns it on again. Better. Crawling is the answer. Athos crawls to the middle of their nice rug and starfishes on it. “We smoked it all.”

“I have more,” Aramis says, detaching himself from d’Artagnan in his excitement and bouncing off for it.

d'Artagnan changes the record from ‘Childrens songs of the 1950s’ (Athos has no idea why Porthos has that) to something more fun and then sits on the sofa resting his socked food against Athos’s jeansed thigh. Athos turns over so he can watch and see the difference of his black jeans and d’Artganan’s pink socks. He rests his thigh against d’Artagnan’s touch and smiles.

“What about me?” Porthos asks, forlorn, still stood in the middle of the room. “What am I to do?”

“Snacks,” Athos decides. Putting Porthos on snack duty is always the right choice.

Porthos brightens and hurries busily to the kitchen returning with every single food stuff he can find that is eatable with fingers and portable, dumping it all on the coffee table and kneeling to sort through it, eating three Babybells in quick succession as he does this. Aramis joins him, sitting against his side and using him as prop and sets about trying to roll a new blunt. Porthos gently takes the stuff and the papers and does it for him, murmuring soothingly and giving Aramis sliced up apple pieces. They planned this smoke, then, Athos thinks; Porthos always pre-slices apple for Aramis when they plan to get high. Porthos is generous with everything he is and has and might have but there is one exception and that is that when he gets hold of a joint it is glued to his fingers. If you ask for it he’ll pass it over in bewilderment as if he didn’t know he has it but they’re on to him; they know he is just unshary about weed. Aramis quickly fixes this by taking it from between Porthos’s lips and kissing him smoke-illy. Athos watches, his head tipped back, caught enrapt by the way their lips move against each other, the way Aramis has to get up on his knees so he can grip the strap of Porthos’s binder and get his other fingers into the top of his boxers.

“Oi!” d’Artagnan cries, jerking forward and saving the blunt. “The carpet, you knob-heads.” And saving the carpet.

“Pretty,” Athos says, watching the blunt slip between d’Artagnan’s perfect lips, the purse of them, the left over trace of lipstick. Athos tugs d’Artagnan’s foot back against his thigh and lolls against it, watching d’Artagnan’s face. He misses the song changing and Porthos’s head coming up to listen but d’Artagnan doesn’t; d’Artagnan turns to watch, smiling, unutterable fondness on his face.

“I like this one,” Porthos whispers, hushed, stroking Aramis’s hair.

“I know you do, that’s why I picked the record,” d’Artagnan says.

“I picked it,” Porthos says.

“You picked children’s songs,” Athos calls.

“I picked it,” Porthos repeats, determined and belligerent, shifting.

“Alright, you picked it,” d’Artagnan says. “Are we going to dance to it now you’ve picked it out, or what?”

“Or what,” Porthos says, still belligerent, then he realises d’Artagnan’s given in and his face falls comically. “No, no! I want to dance!”

d'Artagnan laughs at him, keeps the joint, and gets up, arms out. Porthos and he always dance to this one, always. Athos moves from laying on the floor to laying on the sofa (mostly, his limbs keep drooping off), and Aramis comes to sit on him (maybe by accident but probably on purpose). No one sings like Etta James crooning ‘The Man I Love’ and no one moves like Porthos does to that song, the way he cradles d’Artganan, the way d’Artagnan shifts to embrace Porthos, to kiss his neck, the way they move together. It helps that they’re all high now so everything is moving soupy and tilty and colourfully beautiful. As the song changes Porthos and d’Artagnan break apart and d’Artagnan, still holding the blunt in one hand, rests his fingers under Porthos’s jaw, examining his face before kissing him ever so ever so gently. Then he comes and glowers down at Aramis and Athos, nudging them until they make space for him. Porthos is left in the middle of the room, touching his lips, a please little smile on his face. He goes on dancing by himself, smoking as he sways.

“How’d he get the joint?” d’Artagnan mutters.

“Your fault,” Aramis says.

“I’ll fetch it back,” Athos says.

“He’s smoked a lot,” Aramis says, admiringly.

Athos gets up and pushes into Porthos’s space, tugging at his hand. Porthos laughs uproariously and lifts his arm until Athos is on his tip toes, holding the blunt out of reach almost, then Porthos roars and lifts Athos right off the ground with a great heave and they tumblr to the rug together, snuffing the smoke out against the wood floor (making d’Artagnan shout in dismay and come and snatch it away). It’s quite nice lying on the floor among the Porthos and Porthos seems quite content so they stay that way, entangled, as Aramis and d’Artagnan pass the blunt back and forth talking. Athos is happy he’s the one who’s ended up with Porthos to lie on top of. Porthos is the greatest to lie on top and AND it means Athos can be the one to do the stroking of his cheeks and kissing him and wrapping of arms and legs around him which is wonderful.


End file.
